Survive The Darkness | Book 3 | Resist The Darkness Read online

  Resist the Darkness

  A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller

  Ryan Casey

  Contents

  Bonus Content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

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  Chapter One

  Two months after the blackout…

  Christopher Parker always prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions in check.

  But seeing his mother dying before his eyes really changed everything he thought he believed on that front.

  It was dark. The only light in this room came from the flickering candles, which kept going out in the draught. There was always a bad draught in this house. Ever since he was a kid. He remembered sitting in front of the television, wrapping himself in a blanket and watching whatever Friday night movie Mum picked up from the Blockbuster video store just down the road. Mum telling him to get an extra blanket if he was cold.

  And he felt so bad, looking back. He hadn’t realised at the time just how much Mum was struggling financially. Just how momentous an endeavour something as seemingly simple as turning the central heating on actually was.

  And it didn’t help that he had five brothers. A big family. So many mouths to feed. Sometimes didn’t get fed at all.

  No wonder he’d appreciated his food so much in the years that followed.

  But Friday night video rental night was always a thing. He and his five siblings all huddled up together. Mum on the sofa behind them. Teeth chattering. Blueish complexion to her.

  He looked down at her lying on the sofa right now, and he found himself right back there, all over again.

  She stared back up at him with those bright blue eyes. Her face was gaunt. She was always a big woman. Still had some weight to her, even though their starvation had reached new levels over the last two months. Christopher found it impossible to believe. So hard to understand, as he looked down at her pale, sweaty skin. At those watery eyes, so bloodshot and red, unblinking.

  Holding on to that cold hand, which squeezed him so tightly, still so strong, still so weighty despite everything.

  “Hold on, Mum,” Christopher whispered. Stroking her damp hair off her forehead, most of it just falling away. “You hold on—”

  She coughed. Spluttered blood and phlegm right into his face. He felt a hint of disgust as he tasted the metallic tang on his lips. He wasn’t good with blood. Never good around blood.

  But at the same time… he knew he needed to be as rational and as composed as he’d been throughout his entire life. Seeing emotions as just emotions. Seeing thoughts as just thoughts.

  And sometimes, seeing the difficult decisions as the only decisions that could be made.

  He heard footsteps creaking outside the room, and his stomach sank. Glynn, his oldest brother. And then there was Peter, too. The only two surviving brothers. The only ones left.

  And yet they were out there while he was in here with Mum at what had to be the end.

  She’d fallen ill two weeks ago. Well, she was in her seventies, and she’d been ill for a while. The blackout hadn’t helped. Especially when she wasn’t getting her usual heart medication.

  But recently, she’d really deteriorated. Caught a nasty bug. COVID, probably. It only stood to reason that something like that would make a resurgence in a world so badly sanitised. Not to mention a whole crop of new diseases surfacing. The streets literally reeked of raw sewage at this point; it wasn’t even shocking anymore.

  He didn’t know what Mum’s illness was. Not for definite. He couldn’t know. Truth was, it didn’t matter. She was sick. Really sick. Wheezing away. Vomiting a lot. The air reeked of bile and shit and piss.

  And she was only getting worse by the day.

  He wanted to go out to his brothers. Wanted to ask them what to do next. Because as much as he was the rational one, he was never the decision-maker. It was never a position he was comfortable in.

  But Mum wouldn’t let go of his hand as he stood there in this darkness, the March winds battering the house outside. The whole place creaking. So cold.

  Little Gingey, Mum’s cat, watching with her big eyes from the corner of the room.

  Looking at Christopher nervously. Never had liked him, that cat. Christopher wasn’t sure why. He always liked animals.

  Maybe it was his breath.

  Some people commented on his breath being bad. Maybe cats judged him for that, too.

  He felt Mum’s hand squeeze tighter. Turned around, waited for her to mumble whatever other nonsensical words she had left. Waited for her to gasp with that shrivelled up mouth.

  But there was something different about Mum when she looked up at him this time.

  She was nudging her head back, just a little.

  Like she was gesturing him to come closer.

  He moved his head towards her. Closer to her face. To her vomit breath.

  And then she leaned into his ear. He could feel the faint warmth of her breath on his skin. Hear her teeth chattering lightly.

  She whispered the words to him that sent shivers up his spine.

  He stepped away from her. Let go of her hand.

  Looked down at her as she lay there.

  And he ran over what she’d said to him, again and again and again.

  And as much as the rational part of his brain screamed at him that it was right, that it made sense, especially with how starving he was, with how scarce resources were… the emotional side of him couldn’t be here.

  It couldn’t listen to it.

  Couldn’t hear it.

  Mum lay there. Staring up at Christopher. Coughing again, now.

  And Christopher knew after hearing those words that he couldn’t be in this room anymore.

  He had to get away.

  He had to escape.

  He couldn’t be in here.

  And he couldn’t accept the fact that it was because the thought had been planted in his head.

  The thought he didn’t want to think about.

  The thought he didn’t want to entertain.

  But the thought he couldn’t
push away.

  He stepped out of the lounge. Closed the door.

  Didn’t glance around. Not once. Because he couldn’t look her in the eyes. Not after what she’d said. Not again.

  Peter and Glynn both stood there. Two opposites. Glynn short, fat, and balding. Peter unnaturally tall and skinny.

  “Well?” Glynn said.

  Christopher looked at them both, and as much as he wanted to fight for his mum, as much as he wanted to save her, he knew it was time.

  “I think… I think it’s time we did the kindest thing for her.”

  Glynn’s eyes widened.

  Peter lowered his head.

  Both of them got it. Both of them understood.

  It was Christopher who had been postponing the inevitable all this time, after all.

  Trying to prolong things. For his own selfish reasons, maybe.

  Glynn reached over to him. Put a hand on his shoulder.

  “We’re doing the right thing, Chris.”

  And then he walked past him.

  Opened the door.

  Christopher didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to look.

  But he had to.

  He looked around.

  Saw his mum lying there on the sofa.

  Glynn walking over to her.

  Peter walking past and into the room.

  He stopped at the door.

  Stopped as Glynn stroked Mum’s hair.

  As he reached for a pillow.

  As she looked back over at Christopher, only Christopher.

  He knew he was her favourite, and he knew he was betraying her.

  Peter closed the door.

  He heard some shuffling. Some struggling.

  And then nothing.

  He waited. Waited by the door. Heart racing. Knowing full well what was coming but not wanting to accept it. Not wanting to face up to it.

  But then the door opened, and he knew from the looks on his brothers’ faces that it was done.

  They hugged. All three of them hugged. They cried, while behind them, the lifeless mound on the sofa where Mum lay stared back at him.

  And as Christopher stood there crying, staring into that dark, candlelit room, he couldn’t hide away from the last words Mum said to him.

  He couldn’t help letting the rational side of his brain creep in, amidst all the emotion, as his starving stomach called out…

  “You have to, Christopher. You have to. Just like we spoke of. It’s my last wish. For you. For all of you. You know it’s the right thing to do…”

  Chapter Two

  Four months later…

  Aoife felt the thoughts and the memories simmering to the surface, and she knew there was only one thing she could do to help.

  It was morning. Light peeked in through the cracks in the curtains. The living room was stuffy, clammy. A stench of sweat and a bitter hint of vomit in the air. It reminded Aoife of when she went through a bout of depression and anxiety in her late teens. The months she’d spent just confined to her bedroom. That clamminess in the room; that warmth in the air, suffocating.

  And just the memory of how horrible she’d felt in those years made her feel even worse right now. Brought the memories all crashing back.

  But they weren’t the memories she was trying to suppress.

  The memories she was trying to suppress were so much more terrifying. So much more haunting. So much worse.

  She stood in the middle of the lounge in this place she called home and stared at the bottle of gin in her hands. Edinburgh Gin. Raspberry flavour. Never used to really like gin before the power went out. Always found it hard to enjoy. Much preferred a beer or a nice crisp lager.

  But right now, she’d actually developed quite a taste for gin. Well. That wasn’t entirely accurate. She’d developed quite a taste for all alcohol over the last six months.

  Not the healthiest habit to pick up in her early thirties, sure.

  But fuck. What did it matter anymore anyway?

  The world had gone to shit. And it wasn’t getting fixed any time soon.

  Drink was about the only effective way to pass the time before the end inevitably arrived.

  Because it was coming for everyone.

  And besides, it kept the thoughts away.

  The memories away.

  She saw the sunlight peeking through the dirty window. Somewhere out there, she heard a child laughing on the streets of the estate she’d called home for the last half a year. And it made her smile. For just a moment, it filled her with optimism. Filled her with hope.

  Because it was the sound of normality. The sound of happiness. The sound of innocence, before the world was robbed of all of it.

  But then, following that laugh, she heard a cough. A nasty gasping cough. And it snapped her right back into the moment.

  There were a lot of sick people on the estate. It looked like some sort of respiratory infection had run rife. Probably COVID.

  And in a world without sanitation, in a world where vaccinations had worn off, and antibodies were waning, in a world where groups were tightly pressed together in close quarters, it just stood to reason that disease would take hold.

  She heard the coughing outside. She knew there’d be another death today. There were around forty people in this community now, but at its height, there were eighty—and that wasn’t even that long ago. Most of the elderly were dead, after bravely surviving the first wave of the blackout.

  And the hardest thing to swallow was that supplies were running so low that weirdly, a reduction in the number of mouths needed to feed was probably logistically a good thing.

  And that’s what made Aoife shake her head. That’s what made her open the lid of the bottle.

  Because she could barely face living in a world where these kinds of compromises had to be considered.

  Where death had to be seen as something of a… a bonus?

  No. It just felt wrong.

  She pulled the bottle to her lips, and suddenly a flash of a memory came to mind.

  That day six months ago, in the thick of winter.

  Nathan.

  Moira.

  James killing them both.

  Max falling to the road, and…

  She closed her eyes. Shook her head.

  Poured the gin into her mouth, neat.

  Felt it burning against her tongue, against her lips. And even though it was objectively an unpleasant sensation, she felt like she was growing used to it. Getting accustomed to it.

  To the point that she knew if she had to resort to mouthwash to get her kick, she could probably just about handle it.

  She swigged it back. Gulp after gulp.

  But the more she swigged it, the more the memories came.

  And the more vivid and disturbing they were.

  Her brother, Seth, kneeling before her.

  Holding the gun to his head and killing him.

  Harold shooting the kid, Sam, up at the cottages in the woods.

  Max.

  Max and Rex and…

  She drank more of the drink. More and more. And before she knew it, in no time at all, the lounge was spinning around her. She could barely sit, let alone stand.

  But then the bottle was empty, and she needed something—anything.

  She got up. Walked across the lounge, over towards the kitchen. The kitchen of this place she was told to call home, but felt so empty, so void of life, so void of everything…

  She reached the cupboard where she kept the booze when she saw something she couldn’t quite believe.

  There were no bottles in there.

  It was empty.

  She stared in there, head spinning. Not sure how much longer she could stay on her feet. The fear invaded her.

  Fear of what would happen to her if she didn’t keep drinking.

  Fear of the memories.

  Fear of—

  She saw the graves in her mind.

  Nathan.

  Moira…

  And s
he thought of Max.

  Of standing over him, giving him CPR, trying to bring him back.

  She saw Harry, who she’d left behind in the bus, only to survive before getting beaten to a pulp trying to save her.

  Then the girl who’d died when she’d been fleeing the falling plane.

  And Max…

  “Please, Max. Don’t leave me. Please…”

  She saw the vision of him lying dead on the road flash through her mind.

  Saw the lifelessness in his eyes.

  Felt the guilt all over again.

  Then she saw the old bottle of bleach at the back of the cupboard.

  Without even thinking, without any control over her body, she reached in there.

  She opened the lid.

  Smelled the strong, biting stench of the fluid.

  Stared down at it. Hands shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She went to pour it down her throat when her front door opened.

  She looked around and saw someone standing there.

  A man standing there.

  Tall.

  Bearded.

  Not smiling—never smiling—but those kind, friendly eyes peering over at her.

  Standing there and then running over to her.

  “It’s okay,” he said. Taking the bleach bottle from her hand. Putting it on the side. Helping her to her feet as she sobbed and cried and holding her. “It’s okay, Aoife. It’s okay. It’s Max. It’s me. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”